


This Time

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, BBC, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff, How do even tag, I forgot how to tag, It's all fluff, John is a BAMF, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Teenlock, There's a party, a drunk kiss, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:59:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As young as he was, John had an eerie sixth sense about certain things. Things that were off kilter with the rest of the world and he was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Sometimes, he hated himself for it. Got himself into a bit of trouble now and again because of it. </p><p>John wouldn’t mind a bit of trouble now though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time

John went through the hallways, his teammates flanking his every side. He talked and laughed, but really, he wasn’t paying attention. They were all prattling on about the same things again and again. Honestly, it was easy to falsify a conversation with them. Not that he did it to be rude. He just didn’t like the same conversation every bloody day. Really, he was hungry for more. Was feening desperately for it. For something interesting. Something new and different and fantastic.

 

His eyes caught something new, some _one_ new. He was hard to miss, this new being that wandered down the hallways without so much as one caring glance around. Those cold blue eyes stirred something in John he hadn’t felt in a while, a wave of curiosity. For a moment, John wasn’t even sure why. Probably just because he’s new, he had thought, but oh no. That wasn’t right at all.

           

 

As young as he was, John had an eerie sixth sense about certain things. Things that were off kilter with the rest of the world and he was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Sometimes, he hated himself for it. Got himself into a bit of trouble now and again because of it.

 

John wouldn’t mind a bit of trouble now though.

 

**

 

The new kid all but forgotten, John drags himself to class and tries to pay attention. The teacher drones and John takes his notes, amazed how well he’s actually following what’s happening when he knows in his mind he would rather be elsewhere.

 

When the bell rings, John isn’t the first from his chair. Unfortunately, he has notes scattered everywhere, none of them really legible after a certain point. He tries to stack them neatly in order before giving up and stuffing them in his bag. He’ll organize after school. Maybe. Probably not.

 

John hoists his bag over his shoulder and stands, leaving the empty class behind. His teacher is in the hallway, practically blocking the door. There’s another student in the way. The new kid with the ebony curls and sharp features. He’s arguing with the teacher.

 

“You honestly can’t call that teaching,” the student goes on, his voice deep enough to send an oppressive shiver over John that isn’t unpleasant. He wishes he had heard the start of the argument just to hear that voice a little longer.

 

“Listen here, I will not have that kind of attitude directed towards me,” the teacher fumed, her hands clenching at her sides. In that moment, John couldn’t remember her name, didn’t care enough to. He was simply amazed at the reaction she was having. He’d not seen a teacher this furious before, and with a student no less.

 

“This curriculum is absurd,” the young man went on, still unaware of John’s presence. “You can’t expect any of this to be of used later. Why can’t you teach something of actual importance?”

 

John shivered.

 

 

This one.

 

This brave little (actually incredibly tall) nerd upset about what he was learning, he was interesting.

 

“Detention,” The teacher seethed through gritted teeth. Her eyes were alight with fury.

 

A look crossed the student’s face, a smile as he set his eyes on the teacher. His gaze flicked over the woman as though he could see right through her. “No. I don’t think so.” He paused, looking over her again, double checking his work, his thoughts. “Unless you want the principal to hear about your little indiscretion with the teacher down the hall. You know full well the rules when it comes to other faculty members, don’t you?”

 

The teacher blanched. She didn’t say anything further.

 

John slipped by without either of them noticing.

 

Rugby practice went by in a breeze. His body was covered in sweat when they were finished. His muscles ached. His heart raced. There was a smile on his face as he strode into the locker room and peeled off his practice jersey. His friends were laughing and he joined for the moment, but he wanted a shower. Virtually nothing felt better after a workout than a shower.  

 

Hair still dripping, John left the locker room, leaving behind a few of his friends. The hallways were mostly deserted at this point since practice ran over an hour. Most of the normal student body has left for the day, so John is rather used to it being quiet as he makes his way towards his locker.

 

Only it wasn’t quiet.

 

There was a scuffling sound. A grunt. Someone was punched. John knew that sound and could feel the tension of the fight in the air. A part of him smiled, but he tried to hide as he took off in the direction it was all coming from.

 

At the end of some hallway too far beyond any actual class rooms, John could make out a few students. Anderson, he think was one. He could always identify the smarmy git, especially in a fight. The greasy smart arse was always the man at the back, always the one shouting abuse instead of actually causing it. John had always seen the fear that Philip had coursing through his veins. He would never be a man of action, only ever behind the scenes. John nearly pitied him, knowing the bleak, dull future that lay ahead for the young man.

 

John was quick into the action, wrapping his fingers into Anderson’s collar and yanking back as hard as he could. A predatory instinct took over John as he pried away each of the students, some of the he didn’t know, other he didn’t care to remember. But he knew, at least, all of their faces.

 

At the center of attention, the new kid adjusted himself, fixing his shirt and clearing his throat. There was no thanks, but honestly, John wasn’t expecting one.

 

Someone tapped his shoulder and John turned. A fist was flying for his face, but John was quick. He ducked down and grabbed the arm before it could go too far passed his face and into the new student’s.

 

John twisted the student’s arm, Eddie, he seemed to recall as the kid’s cry echoed down the long hall, and wasting no time John shoved Eddie’s face against the cool bricks.  He stepped up close to the bully, a smile on his face, twisted, as his heart pounded.

 

“I catch you or your friends doing this again,” John whispered harshly, but it was loud enough for everyone around him to make out, “you won’t have to worry about a sprained wrist,” and for emphasis, John tugged the wrist up a little more until he heard a whine. “Clear?”

 

Eddie tried to nod, but his cheeks were too hard pressed against the wall. John pushed him again before releasing the kid’s arm and watched as they all scattered off. He was utterly disappointed in all of them. Really. Could they not hold their own against one man? Truly sad.

 

Without turning to look at the new student, John simply began to walk away.

 

**

 

The weekend passed by without incident. Homework was done sporadically over the three days. Mike asked him to hang out. John had wanted to say no. Instead, he caved, craving some sort of change in scenery. It had been a party, and not an overly dull one either.

 

He met Sarah anyways.

 

She was like him in some ways, he knew. John always knew. But she was too much like him, searching for the danger, the thrill in life, but she was too content in her life to take its hand and run with it.

 

Sarah was a one night stand. Well, one night and a quick morning. She understood. Seemed to see the same thing he did, and she left him with a smile on her face.

 

By the time John strolled into the school Monday morning, he wasn’t expecting much of a morning, especially considering most of his energy had been poured into Saturday night and finishing homework Sunday night. But his attention was quickly aroused as soon as he saw a head of curly hair.

 

His lean figure was dressed in a purple button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and black slacks. Really, who wears something that bleedin’ showy to school? John was simple and liked it that way. Jeans, varsity jacket, and a tee-shirt. Maybe a jumper some days when his mum threatened him with a look of concern on colder days. But that wasn’t important at the moment. Nor an interesting thought process, so John abandoned it when he realized the student was running.

 

Curious, John couldn’t resist the urge to follow. Besides, he’d been early enough that he had plenty of time to kill.

 

Away from the school and around the block, not too far from the school’s field, John followed the student. It was a park-like area with trees and shade. The student stopped at the sight of another student, and John wracked his brain for a name. Vic. Victor.

 

The student handed off a pack of cigarettes. Dull. He’d actually found himself expecting more. Something a bit more exciting. Something a bit more worthy of excitement and running and time. Not a smoke and bit of conversation.

 

Interest and curiosity gone, John let out a sigh and began to walk away.

 

There was swift movement in John’s peripheral, and the student was pulling Vic to him, bringing their lips into a firm press. John had stopped in his tracks, shocked. Vic was a fairly strong young man, and John knew because he’d faced the man in gym class a time or two. He also had a known reputation for stringing along the female student body. The body count was ridiculous.

 

Vic pushed the student off. Or at least tried too. It seemed those dark curls, those cold eyes were irresistible to not only John.

 

John smirked and walked away back towards the school. This was a great development. It fueled some new predator inside of John. He was going to make it his job to know this new student. Find out his secrets. Find out what excites him.

 

**

 

John sat in his desk at the end of the day, his mind wandering. The week had taken its sweet time coming to a close, John’s motivation dwindling. Discovering what he could about the new student had come to a quick halt when all of his teachers decided it was quiz week. His time had been consumed by practice, studying, and one nearly emergency with his sister’s cat (it had been a hairball).

 

At least, there was the weekend. He could sleep, finally, and sleep in, which would be an incredibly nice change in pace. Especially since, as far as he knew, there were no parties going on that he knew about.

 

**

 

His phone went off and Sherlock wanted to scream. It was Saturday night and for the longest time, it had seemed nothing was going on. At least he had gotten his cigarettes from Victor and successfully managed to hide them from Mycroft. His parents too. Though, he was no fool as to think he had tricked them completely. Mycroft made a passing comment about the fragrance around Sherlock, only earning a sly smirk from his younger brother.

 

When Sherlock checked his phone, he noticed it was a text from Mike. There was a party going on tonight. Small, but he was invited. Ugh. NO.

 

Mike was a nice kid, and Sherlock was keeping him close because he knew that someday the young man would become incredibly useful. Unlike the rest of that wasted student body. He’d be surprised if any of them really amounted to anything special. Anything one of a kind. Knowing all that, even if it was Mike’s party, Sherlock didn’t want to go. Convinced himself it was a horrible idea. _Knew_ it was a horrible idea. Yet, his fingers typed ‘Yes’, said ‘I’ll be there’.

 

 

**

 

John walked into Mike’s home. His parents were out of town- they always seemed to be, especially on weekends. If it weren’t for pictures and a few fuzzy memories, John is sure he wouldn’t even know what they looked like.

 

The music is loud, but Mike wasn’t lying. The party was pretty small, less than twenty or so students, all of them from their class. Guys and girls alike are scattered around, dancing, drinking. Some of them pretty wasted already, though John’s sure it’s not all that late into the night.

 

Alcohol isn’t difficult to find. It’s everywhere, but he’s been to Mike’s enough times to know the good stuff is in the fridge and Mike has already said he doesn’t mind. So John digs in the fridge quickly to find himself a cold one.

 

“Oi, John!” Mike calls from somewhere beyond the open screen door and John follows it back into the chilly night. “Glad you could make it, mate.” There’s a smile on his friend’s face, wide and genuine, but John only manages a nod and a half smile.

 

Really, he had no clue what he’s doing there. John was actually looking forward to a quieter weekend. To sleep. Maybe he could leave early. He didn’t need to get drunk. He didn’t really want to get drunk.

 

“I’m not going to lie, mate, this was smaller than I was expecting,” John admitted, looking around the calmly lit backyard. There were lights hanging in the trees, along the fence, plus the porch light. A few more students filled the decently private yard.

 

Mike nodded, “Yeah, easier clean up.”

 

John laughed, “You know, if you ever needed help, I’m only a phone call away.” He normally did a bit of cleaning up before he left anyways, at least, when he wasn’t piss drunk and trying to stumble home. Or trying to catch a ride with someone else’s designated driver- they generally offered themselves up like a cab service for a fee.

 

“It gives me something to do on Sundays,” Mike shrugged.

 

Something moved inside the house like a black storm cloud with an unruly mop of dark curls, black suit (again with the over-dressing?), and a moderately sulky expression on his face. John couldn’t stop his eyes from following the student, wondering what the hell he was doing here. He’d never seen the kid at any party before hand, didn’t know the kid knew enough people to be invited.

 

Then again, that was Mike. The man knew everyone.

 

“What you looking at?” Mike asked, trying to follow John’s gaze, but John was quick to look away. He swallowed half of his drink in nearly one large gulp. “Slow down, John,” Mike laughed, quickly forgetting his question.

 

**

 

The music played and John got drunk. He hadn’t meant to. God, he really didn’t. He knew he was going to be in for a rough morning if he didn’t stop, but he didn’t give a damn. Though, he did take it back inside. The night began to grow much colder in too short of a time.

 

He danced and he didn’t care with who. He even managed to not see the student again. Those piercing eyes didn’t meet with his, and John didn’t search for them. The alcohol in his system was enough of a distraction. He was okay with the fuzzy warmth that coursed through his veins and numbed his face. There was a smile on his face and that’s all he cared about. He was having fun.

 

A few people left and cards were whipped out. Strip poker. The boys verses girls, and the boys were losing. John laughed when Mike turned pink from his ears to his chest as he stripped from his shirt.

 

John started to feel too warm, and now, there was much more body heat surrounding him. He needed air, to step out in the cold for a moment. The sliding glass door had long since been closed, but John opened it and slipped through. Some of the lights had been cut out, but the porch light remained on.

 

Near the fence, something else lit. A small flame burst to life and John could see the student. Damn, he really needed a name. Or at least something to call him.

 

Fancy pants, John thought to himself, very much a snickering drunk. He knew that if he recalled that thought, he would be embarrassed, but now though, he was fuzzy enough not to think too hard. Obvious with such a ridiculous thought.

 

“Yes?” the voice came, low, deep, and rumbling, sending a shiver over John that most certainly wasn’t from the cold. Smoke billowed out from the other man’s mouth and John stared at it for a moment, not realizing he’d been spoken too. “Piss drunk, obviously.”

 

John snapped to attention then. “Oi, rude.”

 

“It’s Sherlock, actually,” the other said and John smiled. A name.

 

John laughed harder.

 

A ridiculous name.

 

“What kind of name is that?” John giggled, nearly doubling over. Yeah, he had too much to drink.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “One much more interesting than John.”

 

“You know my name?” John asked, a little astounded, struggling to hold himself together. The cold was finally seeping through his clothes and spreading over his skin. He couldn’t recall what happened to his jacket, only knew it had to be in Mike’s house somewhere. He was glad he at least had chosen to wear a jumper over his normal shirt.

 

The other man blinked at him, “Obviously.”

 

John felt himself smirk as he staggered forward onto the grass. His eyes found Sherlock’s and they looked like ice beneath the lights of the porch. His heart was oddly steady going, his pulse humming. He felt great even drowning in chilly air as he approached Sherlock.

 

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he felt his hand push against Sherlock’s surprisingly muscular chest, pressing the other boy into the fence with a bit force. A smile crawled across John’s face as Sherlock simply stared down at him. On his toes, John brought his lips to Sherlock’s.

 

For a moment, that’s all it was supposed to be. Something quick, but John pushed a little harder, kissed a little deeper. Sherlock didn’t protest, tasted like smoke, his lips full and soft against John’s. There was a low rumble of appreciation in Sherlock’s chest that John found he enjoyed most of all before pulling back.

 

John felt his smile grow. “I’m drunk, but feel free to hold me to another when I’m not.” He turned and staggered away, proud of himself for pulling back. Surprised he was able too. But perhaps it was the alcohol twisting his thoughts, making him insane. Sherlock hadn’t said no. Sherlock hadn’t pushed him away. Sherlock had enjoyed that just as much as John had.

 

Walking away was a mistake.

 

Drinking was a mistake.

 

Sunday morning, John had a hangover that dominated his day and refused to disappear. The headache, the nausea. The regret. Sherlock was there. He could’ve done the thing. Hell, he could’ve done Sherlock. Would’ve loved to.

 

Sunday night, John struggled through his homework, exhausted, and dreading Monday like an overdue dentist appointment. Nothing to do with Sherlock though, he realized. Oh no. That had a feeling closer to anticipation. His nerves jittered with the mere thought of seeing Sherlock again. The feeling itself was quite exciting since John couldn’t remember the last thing he couldn’t wait for.

 

**

 

Sherlock sat in his room on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His mind was not with him, stuck somewhere else. With someone else. Questions pouring in one ear and out the other, constantly flowing.

 

He couldn’t resist a good mystery.

 

John was better then a good mystery. He was a great one. The best one that dull, wretched place offered. Possibly the best one the city offered. At least one that he was allowed to enjoy, one that he was allowed to figure out.

 

John Watson.

 

A smile slid across Sherlock’s usually bland expression as an image of the young blonde took over his sight. Strong and determined, bound to be an excellent medical doctor when he was older. Sherlock wondered how many people John had told about that. Had he told his friends? His family? Probably not. From the look of his clothes and the bag that he’s had for the last three years, the Watson’s don’t seem to be an overly wealthy family. Medical school is expensive. So why tell people about a dream that might not even happen.

 

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

How many people know the real John Watson? Know he kisses strangers, gets into fights for excitement and then walks away for… whatever reason. Knows he is clever enough to become a doctor and interesting enough to be suffocating in the life he was currently stuck in.

 

Sherlock knows. Sherlock wants John to know he knows. Hell, Sherlock wants John. All to himself, feeling rather greedy.

 

There was a knock at his door, snapping Sherlock from his reverie. His eyes narrowed as they shot to the door. Mycroft. It couldn’t be anyone else.

 

“Go away,” Sherlock called, voice nearly stuck in his throat from being so unused in the day.

 

The door opened.

 

Mycroft’s nose entered before he did. Nosey git. “Look at that,” he began. “I’ve seen that look before.”

 

Sherlock had no clue what he was talking about, nor did he care to ask. “Leave, Mycroft. This is my room.”

 

There was a smile forming across his brother’s lips that Sherlock didn’t like. It was far too knowing for a man who only just walked in. Then again, this was Mycroft. Pompous arse knew he knew everything the moment he saw it, and he had no problem letting everyone else know it.

 

Mycroft took another tentative step in, his expression like a white flag of surrender as he approached. When Sherlock only stared at him, Mycroft fully inserted himself into the bedroom, making his way to Sherlock with his hands held behind his back.

 

It was a photo, Sherlock saw as his brother handed it to him. A photo of his parents when they were younger, looking at each other.

 

Sherlock stared up at Mycroft, clearly confused. His brother was poor at making his point, making Sherlock wonder how on earth Mycroft managed to steal himself a position in the government once he graduated University. Maybe he was just bad with sentiment. Like Sherlock.

 

“Just look at this photo for the next couple of days,” Mycroft said before walking away, but once at the door, he paused to look over his shoulder and added, “tell me if you spot something familiar about it,” before closing the door behind him.

 

And he thought Sherlock was a drama queen.

 

**

 

Monday at last.

 

John rolled into school, early as usual. He dragged his feet, having stayed up late to do his homework, and made his way straight to class without bothering with his friends. All he wanted was to sit down, rest his head on the cool surface of his desk.

 

The hallways were barren as they usually are in the early part of the morning before school. John had the quiet to accompany him until he found his first class of the day, and he slid into his desk, doing the only thing he wanted to from the moment he woke up. Sleep.

 

 

There was a sudden crashing sound and John’s head shot up way too fast. His sight was blurry, still half caught in a dream, but he was able to make out two figures tossing each other around, slamming into desks. One a slightly more bulky figure, the other slender. The teacher was gone from the room. John was the only other one in the room, the only other one that could stop this fight before it carried on too far.

 

John slipped out of his desk, making a bit of a ruckus because his limbs were still shaking from his sudden awakening. The figures paid him no mind, too caught up in swearing at each other. John recognized one of the voices.

 

 

The realization cleared John’s vision significantly. He was able to make out the dark curls as he flew down the small isle of desks. John grabbed the other kid around his jacket collar and realized it was Vic.

 

“Pretentious wanker!” Victor hollered, his voice rough and angry as he reached for Sherlock’s throat.

 

Adrenaline surged through John’s veins and he tossed Vic to the ground. The kid was nearly three/four inches taller than he, had about twenty additional pounds on John, but that as nothing. John had taken on bigger, meaner kids. Because that’s all they were. Children in pissing contests with each other.

 

John pressed his knee into Vic’s back, between the shoulder blades and with his hand, pressed his face into the cold, dirty tile floor.

 

“The only wanker I see here, is you,” John seethed, his voice husky, still laden with a slumber so rudely interrupted. “What kind of petulant child are you anyways? Fighting in the morning and waking a fellow student who is much stronger than you. You’ve got to be pretty stupid.”

 

“Get off,” Victor shouted to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut.

 

John smirked, “What was that? I can’t hear you when you’re talking to the bloody floor, mate.”

 

Victor struggled beneath him, Sherlock came up behind him and touched his shoulder. John looked back to see into those infinite blue eyes staring back down at him.

 

“What?” John asked, trying not to laugh. He wanted to break up the fight, had been the whole reason he stood up in the first place, but instead, he inserted himself perfectly in the middle. With a roll of his eyes, more at himself, John pushed of the annoying twat. He was even tempted to keep his hands at his side, not help Victor to his feet, but his conscious got the better of him.

 

Victor ignored the hand and left the room in a disgruntled huff. John laughed before scrubbing his hands over his face. His throat felt incredibly dry from sleeping.

 

“Wait,” Sherlock half laughs pulling at John’s sleeve to stop him from leaving.

 

John turned around to look at him, eyeing the hand at his sleeve before letting his gaze trail up Sherlock’s arm and chest and neck until he finally found his face. There was just so much of Sherlock to see and there simply wasn’t enough time. Class would start soon, but as he looked at the clock, he realized he had only snoozed no more than five/ten minutes.

 

“Yes?” John asked, his heart still pounding.

 

“I’m not letting you walk away this time,” Sherlock smirked and stepped closer to John.

 

Sherlock’s fingers clasped around John’s wrist, around his stuttering pulse, and suddenly, John couldn’t breathe.

 

“And why’s that?” his voice croaked back in reply, hoarse even to his own ears.

 

That smile on Sherlock’s face grew and he took another step closer. “Because you don’t want me to.” He took another step closer and John backed into a wall, heart ready to explode. He smiled, eyes finding Sherlock’s whose were blown wide, black with arousal.

 

A hand came up to John’s face and it was much more gentle than he was expecting. Soft and… kind. Sherlock’s thumb grazed over John’s lips before he brought their lips together.

 

It was a strange kind of feeling, being kissed by Sherlock. John’s back against a wall, with Sherlock’s long fingers at his jaw. Bodies pressed together. It was like relinquishing control and being okay. It was letting him rule John and take possession of all that is him. And still, he as okay with it. He wanted more.

 

John wanted all of Sherlock. As much of Sherlock as Sherlock wanted of him.

 

He wrapped a hand up in those wild curls, the other around Sherlock’s waist. There was a moan (John’s), and a smile pressed into their kiss (Sherlock’s), and they had to pull apart (something reluctantly mutual) because they needed air.

 

John’s eyes stayed close a moment longer as he leaned back, a smile growing wider across his face until he was practically showing off all of his bright white teeth.

 

That was perfect, John had thought when his thoughts could finally come together. It was better than their first kiss when he was drunk. Better even then his actual first kiss. God, that had been one horrifying event, too awkward to want to remember. But this one, this kiss with Sherlock has been by far the best and most exciting thing John experienced.

 

Some part of John wanted to think it a bit sad that the best thing to happen to him was just a regular kiss from some bloke, but he couldn’t. Something in him knew that this was special. Something in him knew that no matter what happened after this, this was a moment to kept close, something rather precious. Maybe it was the first gentle touch, or the way Sherlock’s hand was still lingering around John’s face, tracing his jaw line. He didn’t know.

 

“You realize what you’ve done now, right?” John laughed, dragging his eyes up to Sherlock’s taking in his image. There was just something great about staring the person you’ve just snogged thoroughly. Something about the way their chest heaves as they try to replace the breath you stole from them, the way their lips are as red as the flush burning brightly over their skin. There’s something in looking at them and seeing what you feel mirrored back within them. “You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

 

“Oh no,” Sherlock teased, leaning back to look at John fully. “What ever shall I do? An attractive rugby player who will undoubtedly make a fine young military doctor wants to stay by my side. God help us all.”

 

John raised an eyebrow, “Wait, how’d you know about that?”

 

“It’s what I do,” Sherlock replied. “I observe what others just see. I connect the dots and form a proper image of a person or scene from the facts shown.”

 

John beamed, “That’s fantastic!”

 

“Really?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself it seemed. There was a curious and innocent expression across his face that reminded John of someone much younger than either of them, something rather hopeful.

 

“Yes. Yes, of course I do,” John confirmed with a smile. “It’s nice that someone knows. I haven’t even told my parents yet.”

 

“Because you know medical school is expensive,” Sherlock finished for John as if he were reading his thoughts clear out of a book. “And the military is rather logical. It pays for the bills. But still, you know your parents will worry, so you’re simply working out a way to tell them since you’d like to avoid their concern.”

 

“My god, you’re amazing,” John gawked, his mouth hanging open, eyes glittering and wide with awe.

 

“You know you’re doing that aloud, right?” Sherlock laughed, an almost nervous sound.

 

John raised an eyebrow, “Do you want me to stop?” he half laughed.

 

“No, no,” Sherlock grinned. “It’s quite alright. I’m sure I can get used to it.”


End file.
